


Wrath

by Illuvarion (LetTheShipsBurn)



Series: Quenta Illuvarion [2]
Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Alqualondë, Character Study, First Kinslaying, Flight of the Noldor, Gen, Kinslaying, Oath of Fëanor, Original Character(s), The Noldor, Why we can't have nice things, elves behaving badly
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-22
Updated: 2016-06-22
Packaged: 2018-07-16 14:51:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 404
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7272592
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LetTheShipsBurn/pseuds/Illuvarion
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which blood is spilt, identities are lost, and doom comes to the Noldor</p>
            </blockquote>





	Wrath

Panting slightly and stained with blood, I watched the port burn. How many had diet at my hands, then? Dozens? Who then was left to sate my need for violence? I coldly surveyed the empty streets, populated only by lifeless forms and wreckage. The destruction was near total.

“Aiya,” I heard a voice call. “Silwë! We depart, join us! Victory is ours, brother! We sail for Beleriand, and vengeance!”

I cannot sail, though others knew how, and I sat upon the deck of this marvelous vessel as the sails filled above me. It cut the water, eastward, like a knife through silk; silent. I did not look back. In the mirrored steel of my gauntlet, I saw myself – bloodstained. At the time, my vanity spoke to me, and I was thrilled.

“Let the ships burn.” said Fëanor, once our host had gathered.

We would not return to the aid of Fingolfin’s folk. This betrayal seemed nothing to me then; we had won this passage ourselves. The Telerin Swan-boats were set ablaze. We did not realize that with them perished the youngest of Fëanor’s sons. He had been forgotten. A shadow fell that night upon us, but we set upon our course. It could not be helped.

The years to follow were a haze of blood and loss and victory. By my sword a great many foes were slain. I felt nothing for them, nor for myself; I was consumed by a deep, burning rage I barely understood.

Though I do not have the stature of a warrior – I am slight of build but resilient – I rose to lead a company of my kinsmen. Warlord, I was titled. Commander. Despite all, my thirst for violence was matched only by my vanity and pride; I knew little pleasure but that of bloodshed and pain. I was remorseless, as well; both at Alqualondë and in the years to follow. I was the named Silwë Rúsënar; Silwë the Wrathful, for I knew no fear nor pity, only rage.

Silwë Rúsënar, Warlord of the Noldor.

I wore this name with pride for many, many years. The hopeful, gentle craftsman I once was perished that fateful night, as first I drove my sword through the throat of a young Telerin shipwright, who spat at me in defiance, and spilt blood for the first time.

I kicked his lifeless body into the sea, and he who I was died with him.


End file.
